Despondency's Match
by Mistarr
Summary: Cloud wakes to another dream of her, after which he remembers how she died. Does it all mean anything?


Despondency's Match  
By Mistarr  
  
Hello everyone! This is my first uploaded fanfic (though by no means my first one written ^ ^) so sorry if it, erm, sucks or something. yeah, am I supposed to do some sort of disclaimer or something? I don't know. Sheesh. ~~~None of the characters in this story (though I don't actually name any of them ^ ^") are my own creation. They belong to Squaresoft Inc. (or whatever the company that made Final Fantasy VII is called) and have full rights to them. The characters are SQUARESOFT'S! NOT MINE!  
  
Right. my first disclaimer. did I do it right? Anyway, hope you enjoy. ________________________________________________________________________  
  
I find myself sitting upright in bed. I was sleeping, dreaming, but I can't remember everything. It's been the fifth time I've had this dream. Is she really calling to me?  
I still remember how she died. She was standing there, her head bowed, her hands clasped angelically. I remember feeling the surrealism swirling around me. She stood there, but a hundred meters from me. And then came the silver flash of light. It came from above, indistinguishably blurry. She and I stood there, staring at each other, sharing the last moments we would spend together in life. I remember. I try not to, but how can I forget? I saw her beautiful face, and then I looked down to see the blade coming out of her. It felt like a dream. I would shudder at the thought of it, if I were not as devastated as I am. The blade came out of her, a piece of sharp, cold metal in her soft flesh, flesh that was never meant to be harmed. She was special, we all knew it. He knew it. I suppose that's why he killed her. But she wasn't just what they thought she was. How could they know how important she was? How could they possibly feel what I felt, what I still feel to this day?  
They can't.  
I stared at the silver, gleaming blade as if it were ten Meteors come all at once to destroy what I cared for most. And just as I braced myself for their impact, as I prepared for battle like I had so many times before, I saw the blade slide back into her. The man behind here pulled it out, and I realized that the battle was over before I could do anything. Was there even a battle that had taken place? If there was, it was a one-sided battle. They were the only combatants. No, she wasn't even a combatant. She was too important to have been a combatant. And yet the way he murdered her. He came down, none of us aware of his presence. At least, not until it was too late.  
And then there was the hole. Cold tears trickle down my face, trying to distort the image of red. But the image cannot be changed, let alone erased, no matter how hard I try. It was a hole right in her lower chest, just below her breast. I remember seeing through the perfectly sword-sized slit below her bosom. And yet the hole just stayed there. She did not bleed. It was almost as if she knew, and her body was beyond resistance; as if here body had already accepted it before any of us, even I, had a clue. And her face was a smile that just stayed there. It sort of sagged. Oh my God. Her smile slid as she lost control of her body. Just as I had realized what had occurred, she slipped away.  
I pay no attention to the cold tears that find their way down my face. They have become a routine now.  
I continue through my memories. I remember the man, no, the,  
I cannot find in all my head a word hideous enough to describe the being that stood behind her. He stood there, smiling. Yet the smile had no emotion in it. It was completely blank, just as blank as her face after death had taken her away. But death still lingered on in his. I felt that if I could have just been given the gift of, instead of having to stare at him, being able to stare into the eyes of Hades, I would have been infinitely elated. His face was so evil, his silver eyes colder than the tip of his blade.  
If a painting could be made to depict the contrast between the two figures in front of me, one would be blinded, no, perhaps just dulled, to the hues of everyday color. Indeed, was I not dulled to the emotions normally felt on a daily basis? After that image and those emotions were seared into my brain, is there anything else to see? Is there anything else to feel? Oh, the emotions: hatred, despair, sorrow; a well with unfathomable depth. Nothing can describe the maelstrom of heart-ripping emotions I felt then.  
And yet here I am, sitting in bed, my blanket soaked with an equal mixture of sweat and tears. Why does she keep coming into my dreams? After the incident, sleep was the one place I could escape from my memories. It was a sample of death given to me every night, and it felt so good.  
Then why does she come into my mind? Five nights now I have missed the gift of temporary death.  
And then the dream comes to me in an instantaneous flash. I see that there is actually nothing to the dream. All there is is her. She is reaching out to me from a sea of green. I'm floating above her, trying to reach back. But there is no use; the chasm between us is too far. And yet I still try! I try because I can do nothing else! I cannot fall to her, and she cannot be lifted to me. And then, at the end of the dream, she whispers words, but I cannot hear them. We are too far away. And then I wake up, a piercing feeling of desperation in my gut. And then I fully come out of my dream, am fully awake, and my desperation turns to anguish, and my anguish turns into pain.  
But I feel that, if by some infinitely small chance brought to me by the capricious thing called Fate, that she is trying to reach me, then she is making progress. Or rather, I am making progress. She has been uttering the same words every night; I can tell by the movement of her delicate lips. It is I who cannot hear the words. But this night the words sounded clearer than the last, and even clearer than the night before. Maybe I am making progress. And if I am, then maybe I will get to hear those words. One night, maybe no time soon, maybe no time remotely near, but one night, I may hear the words. I feel I will know something she wants me to know, something important.  
But, until that time comes, I will suffer like this every night.  
At least there is hope. There is something to look forward to. I feel that, somehow, my suffering (though I feel my life would be no better without it, for I suffer every minute I think about Her) is not in vain.  
I remember those delicate lips once more. The lips turn into a smile, a smile that slowly finds itself attached to a happy, carefree image of her, and I drift off to sleep. 


End file.
